Fran Wilde - Updraft

Swaying from foot to foot as he thought, Moc looked very young. I held myself still, listening to what was being said and what was not being said. How many layers of allegiance and independence existed in the Spire? In the city, loyalty was to tower and family first, then friends and allies after. A tightly woven fabric — except when there was a flaw. I thought of how Densira and my aunts had almost abandoned my unlucky mother. In the Spire, loyalty was different, focused on power: on gaining it, on keeping it. Much was dedicated to duty. Still more to the city itself. Then, to other Singers, as long as they were skilled enough and did not break tradition. Singers with Spire family had another layer as well. It reminded me of the Gyre’s wind gusts, spun together to form a powerful current that lifted a flier’s wings. Or made them fall.

I did not understand all of it, by far. And, from what I’d seen, some Singers valued certain layers over others. If I didn’t figure out the connections, those forces would work against me, pull me down.

Worse, I stood in a room with my father, and I could not bring myself to greet him. He was weak and ruined. He’d almost killed Nightwings last night and Ciel today, to aid his own plans. I didn’t know him. How could I want him as a relative, much less an ally?

I thought back to Civik’s attempts to delay Rumul. To Moc’s words. “Why did Terrin need support?”

Moc blew air through his lips in exasperation. “You still don’t understand, Kirit.”

At my name, Civik’s head turned farther. His blind eyes looked like kavik eggs. I shivered. “Kirit?” he whispered and leaned towards me. His cart rolled forward, his fingers reaching out, and I stepped back, involuntarily.

“What happened?” I asked.

At my words, Civik leaned back, and his cart retreated towards the wall.

Moc answered. “He fell, during his last fight. Lost his legs. Destroyed his shoulder. Before that, he broke his hip, but he still fought in the Gyre.”

“When did you go blind?” I whispered, circling to stand nearer to Moc. Civik’s white gaze followed the sound of my voice now.

“His first fight. A challenger. She devastated him, but let him live. He became a windbeater, but he emerged twice to challenge again.” Moc sounded sad and proud at the same time.

“You fought blind?”

Moc laughed. “Singers fight until they can’t. Of course he fought blind. You could too, if you got better at echoing.”

Of course — as a skymouth shouter, Civik would have also trained as a Nightwing.

“And he can’t stop fighting. Civik thinks he’s the conscience of the Spire, don’t you?” Moc stepped close and tapped Civik on the shoulder. The two were nearly the same height.

“Kirit is a name I haven’t heard in a long time,” Civik finally said. Then his shoulders slumped. “What tower are you from?”

But I had my own questions. “Years ago, you betrayed Naton Densira, didn’t you? Why?”

Civik bent farther with more hacking sounds. Finally he caught enough breath to speak. “Is that what you think? Who told you that?”

I was about to answer when Moc looked up, head tilted. “Someone’s coming.”

Wik emerged from a ladder well.

“Moc. Kirit. Why am I not surprised? You’ve caused quite an uproar.” His voice sounded stern. His eyes, though. They looked grateful.

He saw Civik, bent down to clasp the man’s gnarled hand.

Moc pointed. “Old man’s been trying to sabotage things all the wrong ways. First the wings, then the Gyre blowback. If Ciel had fallen…” His voice tightened on the last words.

Wik raised his eyebrows. Civik interjected before Wik, too, could grow angry.

“Moc didn’t tell me how to stir things up, just that folks wanted them stirred. Hasn’t paid me either.”

Moc. The Nightwings. No.

“Fine,” Moc said, ignoring my shocked face. “This is your gossip: Rumul has accepted the oath of an adult novice to take your place as a shouter. Kirit. He won’t need you anymore once she’s trained.” His voice was angry and mean.

Wik frowned but didn’t contradict him. I knelt next to Wik and Civik.

I put a hand out and touched the windbeater’s fingertips. “Not replace. Moc is angry.” Civik’s fingers were dry and callused. He startled at my touch, then wrapped his hand around mine. For a moment, I imagined that we had always been this way. Then I squeezed his hand hard, and he yelped.

“Why did you leave Densira? Why did you betray Naton?” I would not let go until he told me.

Wik put a hand on my shoulder. “You have it backwards, Kirit. Civik has been trying to help.”

“I made a mistake,” Civik whispered. “A lot of mistakes. But I am fighting now.” His eyes rolled, searching for light he’d never find.

“When he returned to the Spire and lost his first challenge,” Wik said, “he was allowed to concede. And then he didn’t stop challenging. His injuries didn’t matter. He kept flying. When Rumul finally beat him, he broke Civik’s collarbone. Civik was no longer able to fly beyond the Spire without help. He couldn’t return to Densira.”

I turned on Wik. “And who are you? Rumul’s man? Like Sellis?”

Wik shook his head. “I see the good the Singers do, and I defend the city. But Rumul’s decisions have consequences for everyone. I supported Terrin and wanted the city to know what he had to say. I was one of a few who wanted this. There are others.”

“What was it that Terrin wanted to say?”

“It has to do with the skymouths,” Wik said slowly. “But it has been decided.”

Civik coughed, ignoring Wik. “Ezarit? Does she live?” So he did remember. He’d drawn into himself, his arms wrapped around his chest.

“She does,” I said. “Though she seems to be at the end of her ability to negotiate with the Singers.”

I heard Moc gasp.

Civik hung his head. “That is my fault too.”

“What does that mean?”

He answered me. “If I’d lost properly, or had told her everything, she would have had more to bargain with.”

Then the timing clicked. Civik’s initial downfall. My mother’s challenge. Her voice telling me the story, after the wingtest. I was ruthless, Kirit. She’d fought Civik. To gain her security in the towers.

I looked around Civik’s alcove. The pipes, the smell of fresh air and old bone. His sunken, gray cheeks. The darkness. “Are you in pain?”

He shook his head. Then nodded. “Always, a little. Enough.”

“You were a Singer and a skymouth shouter. Why are you down here?”

Wik answered instead. “He challenged Rumul. Who could have killed him.” I frowned, though I understood. Wik continued. “But shouters’ voices? They’re valuable. Civik could no longer fly, but Rumul went to great lengths to keep him alive.”

Civik’s voice. The rasp of it. Stilling with one shout a skymouth, all teeth and maw and grasping tentacles. That was one power Rumul lacked, except when he could control it in others. I looked more closely at my father. His lips were chapped and cracked. His clothing very dirty. He was thinner than Wik, by far.

Rumul might have been keeping him alive, but it was a very near thing. And I couldn’t imagine Civik outside the Spire, being flown by another Singer, in the midst of a skymouth migration. There was something else that I was missing.

My hand went to my throat. “How does Rumul use Civik’s voice inside the Spire?”

There was a long pause. No one answered me.

“It has been decided,” Wik said, looking away.

Terrin’s challenge. “What did he want to tell the city?”

Civik’s laugh was a sour echo. “Secrets.”

Wik took my hand and tried to pull me out of the alcove. I refused to budge. Finally, he said, “Come. I will show you.”